Amara’s feet dragged through a dusty street in the midday sun, her body still stiff from restless sleep under the open sky. She adjusted her cracked glasses out of habit, only to remember she no longer needed them; her eyesight was perfect now, a bittersweet reminder of the eldritch power coursing within her.

The small town nestled at the edge of a wide river, its crooked wooden homes leaning over one another like gossiping neighbors. She spotted a handful of vendors calling out their wares—baskets of fruit, handmade trinkets, salted fish. The moment she stepped onto the main thoroughfare, eyes turned her way. New faces drew suspicion, it seemed.

She told herself to ignore the stares, focusing instead on finding a warm meal and maybe some help in understanding this strange world. Rounding a corner, she caught sight of a scene that made her stop short:

A lean elf with short white hair—so short it barely brushed the tip of his ears—stood pressed against a wall. Three men circled him, jeering. Their taunts carried across the street.

“Show us that amazing healing magic, elf. C’mon,” one sneered, leaning in. “Heard you can’t cast a single decent fire spell. Useful as a limp sword in a dragon fight.”

The elf’s face burned red. “I—I only know how to mend—” He winced as another man poked him roughly in the ribs.

“You hear that? He can mend a scratch. Where’s the glory in that?”

Amara’s breath quickened. She could almost feel her inner power roil, daring her to intervene. She forced it down, willing herself to stay calm. Stepping forward, she cleared her throat.

“That’s enough,” she said, voice low but firm.

The men turned. At the sight of her slight frame and unassuming attire, they chuckled. “Who are you supposed to be?” one of them spat.

“Someone who thinks picking on a healer makes you look like cowards,” she replied crisply.

She might’ve been polite in manner, but there was steel in her words. The men glanced at each other, then back at Amara. For a tense second, she wondered if they’d come at her. If that happened… she wasn’t sure she could keep her strange powers from lashing out again.

But one bully shook his head as if she wasn’t worth the trouble. “Freaks of a feather,” he muttered. Then he and his companions stalked off, grumbling under their breath.

Amara let out a careful exhale. The elf sagged against the wall. “Th-thank you,” he said in a shaky voice, eyes downcast. She noticed his purple irises—unusual and striking. “I’m sorry… if I caused you trouble.”

She waved off his apology. “You didn’t cause me any trouble. People like that cause their own.” She offered her hand. “I’m Amara.”

He hesitated before taking it. “Calen,” he managed, voice soft. “I… appreciate your help.”

His short hair intrigued her—she didn’t know much about elves, but she had an inkling it might be unusual. Still, she refrained from asking. Instead, she fished out the few coins she carried. “Are you hungry, Calen? I could really use a hot meal.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

It turned out a nearby tavern served a decent stew. Though cramped and noisy, it gave them a corner table to share. Calen mostly stared at his spoon, occasionally mumbling half-formed apologies if he accidentally clinked it against the bowl.

Throughout the meal, Amara probed gently about his healing talents. He blushed each time, stuttering about how “n-no one wants a healing mage,” and that he “c-can’t do flashier spells.”

“But I do,” she said earnestly. “I—I’m a bit clumsy, and I get into… accidents. A healer would be a big help.” She didn’t mention the real reason—her unstable powers still haunted her. “Travel with me, Calen. I insist.”

He blinked, clearly overwhelmed. “I… d-don’t know,” he murmured.

They talked until the bowls were empty and the sun drooped low outside. Eventually, after much urging from Amara, he gave a hesitant nod. “All right,” he said, voice trembling with nerves but laced with a flicker of determination. “I’ll try.”

A fragile, hopeful smile crossed Amara’s face. She felt relief blossom in her chest, certain that—even if she couldn’t explain the true depth of her need—this gentle elf with healing hands might be the anchor she desperately sought.

Amara and Calen walked side by side through the bustle of midday traffic, drawing wary glances from townsfolk. The local Adventurers’ Guild Hall loomed ahead—a large, timber-framed building with a wide porch and a creaking sign that read Guild of Fairwind. If it hadn’t been for Calen leading the way, Amara might’ve passed it by altogether, mistaking it for a busy tavern.

Inside, the air was thick with conversation, the smell of ink and parchment mingling with sweat and old leather. Adventurers crowded around various notice boards, trading in tokens, and comparing bounties.

Calen kept his head low, pointed ears barely showing beneath his short white hair. Amara was still curious about the style—she’d never seen elves with short hair before—but she bit her tongue. His posture told her he was uncomfortable enough.

They made their way to a front desk, where a harried clerk checked through a ledger. Without looking up, he said, “Name and rank?”

“C-Calen,” her companion answered quietly. “Rank… well, I’m Tier Four.” He shuffled some papers from his pouch to show proof of missions completed.

Amara watched the clerk’s eyebrows shoot up. Tier Four? She hadn’t realized the shy elf was that experienced. The clerk stamped a document and nodded. “Impressive record for a healing specialist. We have a job request: a dungeon exploration. The pay is high, risk moderate. Interested?”

Calen glanced at Amara. She gave a small nod, silently relieved to have someone so competent by her side. “We’ll take it,” he said.

The clerk handed over a notice. “Excellent. And… you?” he asked Amara, raising an eyebrow.

She tried to explain she was new, only to find they had a mandatory classification test. A brief magical assessment followed—a few spells were tested, though warlock powers weren’t even on the chart. When all was done, the clerk shook his head.

“Beginner wizard, Tier One,” he concluded, stamping her card. Around them, several adventurers who’d been listening snickered. One elbowed his companion, whispering loudly, “What good’s a newbie wizard with no spells?”

Heat rose in Amara’s cheeks. She clenched her fists, but before she could respond, Calen stepped forward, eyes flicking between them. “S-she’s… she’s very supportive,” he managed. “W-when I… I mess up, she helps me c-cover that. That’s—uh—that’s her quality.”

A few murmurs rippled through the small crowd. It wasn’t exactly a grand defense, but something in Calen’s stuttering sincerity made the onlookers scowl and break off. They left with a few muttered curses, but they did leave.

Amara exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders. “Thanks,” she said, surprised and touched that shy, soft-spoken Calen would speak up for her at all. He only nodded, ears burning pink.

“Uh, I—I’d like to repay you… for the meal,” he said. “Could… we stop at a shop?”

They soon found a modest equipment stall on the guild’s first floor, and Calen carefully selected a sturdy leather pouch that strapped at the hip. “For your things,” he offered quietly. “So… you don’t have to carry them all in your hands.”

Amara managed a genuine smile as she took the gift. “Thank you, Calen.”

And with that, the two of them—a Tier Four healing elf and a newly ranked ‘wizard’—stepped out of the guild hall together, ready to embark on their first joint adventure.